


Wheel of Westeros: Prologue to Volume Two

by Thrafrau (annmcbee)



Series: Wheel of Westeros [34]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Endgame Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-20 15:15:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30006855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annmcbee/pseuds/Thrafrau
Summary: This short prologue marks about the halfway point of the series...after this, the series will be heavy on Jon and Dany. I am buried under student papers, so for now, enjoy this moment between a grieving, seasick Jon and the beautiful red priestess on their way to Braavos and the road to the Dragon Queen's manse.
Relationships: Melisandre of Asshai/Jon Snow, Satin Flowers & Jon Snow
Series: Wheel of Westeros [34]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1458574
Comments: 6
Kudos: 19





	Wheel of Westeros: Prologue to Volume Two

**_The Wheel of Westeros_ **

**A prologue to the second half of the series…**

_Disclaimer:_

_This fan fiction is meant neither to be a continuation of George R. R. Martin’s_ A Song of Ice and Fire _series, nor a revision of seasons 6-8 of the HBO series,_ Game of Thrones _. It is meant to stand alone, independent of those works, and can be read alone by those who have not seen the TV series or read the books. Having said that, this work will borrow from not only_ Game of Thrones _and_ A Song of Ice and Fire, _but from multiple other works of film, television, music and literature. Please see footnotes for references, and feel free to point out any I’ve forgotten._

Jon

As Satin rinsed the pail out in the basin, Jon sat on his trunk with his head between his knees, breathing deep through the nose and praying silently that his stomach would stop rolling. Morna had given him a square of lamb’s wool that had been soaked in lavender oil, and Satin had been feeding him spoon after spoon full of a mint leaf tea that tasted like twigs and soot, and still he could not stop throwing up. Jon was grateful at least that little Ren Sealskinner was no longer puking, and had managed to fall asleep on the cot in their cabin.

Satin brought the clean bucket and sat before Jon upon a stool. “Do you wish to go up on deck again, sire?”

Jon shook his head. The weather had calmed a bit, but it was still damned cold, and the wind could pick up of a sudden any moment. “It’s subsiding now,” he lied.

“I can see if Lady Whitemask has some ginger,” Satin suggested. “When my stomach was sick as a boy, my mother always fed me broth with ginger.”

“Old Nan used to strain chicken soup until it was near clear. Or it was cinnamon and sugar on toasted bread.”

As a youth, Jon had gotten a yearly stomach sickness that would strike without warning around harvest time. Nan had washed the vomit out of his bedclothes and breeches numerous times, and he had even thrown up on Robb once, much to Lady Catelyn’s ire. This felt worse. Sweat was pouring from his face and neck, and his mouth tasted like King had shit inside it while he was asleep. The big black bird was in the seventh heaven aboard the swan ship called _Cinnamon Wind_ , which didn’t smell like its name, and instead smelled, strangely, like Samwell Tarly of all things. King circling the sky above the sails, joyfully calling his own name across the water. Ghost was less happy in what for him was very close quarters – no place to run and nothing but cooked and salted meat to eat.

“Where is my brother?” Jon asked. “Someone should look after him.”

“Don’t worry about that, sire. I saw him fast asleep in the cage tucked under Shaggy’s hip before I came down. I assure you no one on board this ship could be safer.”

Because of his lack of taming, Shaggy Dog had to be caged lest he chomp someone’s hand off. Jon regretted not spending more time training him when he had the opportunity. It was unfair to the black wolf, whose green eyes flashed with anger when anyone passed him, including Jon, who had previously almost developed a rapport with him. Now that was ruined, and Jon only hoped Rickon would not grow to hate him as well.

“The Lady Melisandre was asking after you,” Satin said. “I hope you don’t mind I mentioned you were feeling ill. She did say she had something to help.”

“I’ll bet she does.”

When Jon had returned to the Dreadfort to prepare for the journey over the Narrow Sea, a fleet sent by Daenerys Targaryen was waiting already at the mouth of the Weeping Water. The crew were mainly Easterners and, interestingly, Ironborn who had joined the Dragon Queen’s ranks. Ser Jorah Mormont – a knight Jon’s father had exiled from Bear Island many years earlier – greeted him as an envoy along with Ser Davos Seaworth and two red priestesses of R’hllor: Melisandre and Yaya. Lady Yaya’s red silken gown and red head wrap were trimmed with pink feathers, and like Jon, she kept a bird companion. A brightly-colored parrot she had named Joy-Joy sat upon her shoulder, and though it never spoke, it seemed to understand anything that was said. Yaya was a dark-skinned beauty of the Summer Isles who had a strange way of speaking, as if her words were feathered like her clothes. Ser Jorah and Yaya were now on their way to Winterfell to serve and guide Sansa and her uncle the Blackfish, and Jon wished them luck. Ser Davos had come to reunite with his son Devan, who had been Jon’s faithful lieutenant since the Wall, but why Lady Melisandre had come was mysterious. _To provide spiritual guidance at the gateway to your destiny,_ she had told him. Jon, however, was highly suspicious of her “guidance,” and he had ordered young Ren and Satin to stay with him in his sleeping quarters to keep the red witch out of them.

“She does carry with her quite a cache of potions and powders,” Satin said. “Although I’d speculate that much of it is for beauty purposes.”

“Well that’s working well enough then,” said Jon. Melisandre looked even lovelier than ever, with her hair and eyes like glowing embers and her skin like fresh cream.

“I can send her down if you like. If it means anything, I do think she wants to help.”

Jon shook his head just as another wave of nausea seized him. Satin detected his distress and produced the clean bucket at his feet. Jon hurled into it a gush of minty water and bile. “Maybe I’ll go up on deck for a bit,” he said when he had finished.

On deck it was freezing, though the air was changing he could tell. The smell of the air was different in this part of the sea. Gone was the waft of gulls and shoreline fish, and in its place was a slightly sinister smell: deep and salty-clean with a lingering scent that reminded him of the monster he had seen in Barrows Lake that had devoured Lady Stoneheart. Another smell came from behind him as he swallowed air at the railing – warm cloth, star anise and old earth. He felt a warmth at his back and turned to see Lady Melisandre standing there. The wind blew her red hair all around her, and the ruby at her throat twinkled. Jon’s eyes traveled involuntarily to the bared tops of her breast above her bodice. Melisandre was always warm. Her skin smelled of poison lilies, and her lips smelled of the berry juice that brightened their color.

“Your good steward tells me you are sea sick, Lord Chieftain,” she said. “I have a draught you can take to settle your stomach. Why don’t you let me help you, my prince.”

“I’m all right,” said Jon. “I need to take the air, that’s all.”

Melisandre pulled a small vial filled with an amber-colored liquid from between her breasts. “Forgive me, Chieftain, but why suffer if you don’t have to?” She took Jon’s hand in hers and placed the vial into his palm. Both her skin and the vial were very warm. Jon realized he was shivering. Ghost stood not far away from them, eyeing the red priestess warily. Ghost spent most of the day on deck where he felt less confined. The cold didn’t bother him.

“I have to get used to the sea. Fighting slavers, we may be sailing all over the Summer Sea if Ser Davos has it right.”

“You’ll grow accustomed to the water soon enough…” She drew closer to Jon, and placed a warm hand on his forehead, sliding it down his cheek and to his collar. “You’re very pale. Your powers are fading.”

“There are no heart trees in the East, my lady. Whatever power I had, we draw farther and farther from its source. Soon I’ll have but my sword and my wolf, and even those may be weakened where we’re going.”

Melisandre tilted her head and smiled. “You think your power comes from trees.”

“And you believe it comes from the Lord of Light I suppose.”

“The Lord has shown you to me in the flames, Chieftain. If you would let me show you…” Her breath smelled of rocks warmed in the sun. Through the velvety fabric of her crimson gown, he could see the bend of her hipbone, the rise of her nipples.

“I don’t need visions in fire to tell me my destiny, my lady. I’m not interested in your flames.” _I am interested in your body, however, Gods help me._

“That is of course up to you, but you must get out of this wind, my prince. A fever would certainly be an impediment to your destiny.” She brushed his hair away from his eyes and met them with her own: red as fresh blood and shining. “You know where to find me.”

With that, she turned and seemed to float away. Jon hadn’t meant to insult her. She had been right about his murder after all. Had he heeded her warnings, his death might never have happened. He cursed to himself as a blast of icy wind hit him in the face. The priestess was right. If he stayed out there, he would fall to something worse than seasickness. However, when he went to his cabin, the misery was worse than ever. The wind tossed the ship such that even those who had shown no sign of sickness began to look green. Jon vomited over and over until there was nothing left inside him but air and bile, and his chest ached from the exertion. Finally, he gave in and swallowed the amber elixir Melisandre had given him. At first, it seemed it would come right back up and join the rest of what sloshed around in the bucket by his cot, but then his gullet finally seemed to relax. Before long, his eyes grew heavy. Ren seemed to be having a bad dream – moaning softly and kicking his legs on the cot. Jon curled up with him under the furs, and soon they were both sleeping peacefully.

Jon’s peace however was soon disrupted by a strange dream. He found himself in the midst of a forest on fire – the trees alight with bright orange flames. No matter where he turned, the fire leapt at him, leaving him nowhere to run. However, the flames that kissed him did not burn him. They burned away his clothes, leaving him naked, but their heat made him feel strong. He felt he could see the insects and birds panicking in the burning trunks and branches, could hear the voices of the Old Gods crying out from the wood. Among them, another voice, deep and terrible, cried out, _My son. My son. Avenge me._ Jon spun around to see where the voice came from, but it came from everywhere. _Father? Father!_ His own voice sounded strange to him. _Avenge me my son. Avenge your brother._ Jon realized he was weeping. _How, Father? Father, let me see you, please._ How many days had he wished to lay eyes on Ned Stark one more time? _Avenge your brother, my son. Avenge your sister._ A cold horror struck him even as the flames closed in, and Jon awoke.

It was nearing twilight, and Ren was snoring. The ship was no longer rocking so badly, and Jon’s stomach was still, but the dream lingered in his senses. Was Arya in danger? Had something happened to her, or to Sansa? He rose and put on his boots, then stole out of the cabin toward Melisandre’s quarters. As if expecting him, she opened the door less than a second after his knock fell.

“Is my sister hurt? Is she in danger? Tell me!” Jon demanded.

Melisandre reached out and pulled him in by his shirt strings, closing the door behind him. “Be calm, my prince. Tell me what troubles you.”

“You trouble me! That potion you gave me. I had a dream of my father ordering me to avenge my sister.”

“That was no work of mine I assure you.”

Melisandre had been resting. The milky, wet smell of her bedclothes called to Jon urgently. Her gown had been replaced by a thin, silk robe that clung to her skin so that he could see her contours perfectly. Jon’s hand drifted toward her. “You’ve seen no visions of Arya? Or Sansa?”

“Both Stark sisters are beset by enemies at all times…but they are also protected in all directions by the forces of light, my prince.”

“Stop calling me that. I’m no prince.”

“No…of course not. Be still, Chieftain. It was a dream…nothing more.”

She rested a hand upon his heart. Instinctively, Jon placed his own hand over it. He leaned in to smell her, breathing in the ancient scents of wet sands, hot coals and iron mixed with lily and jasmine. He smelled the pain in her childhood memories, the block upon which she and her mother stood so impossibly long ago.

“You were a slave?” Jon asked in a whisper.

Melisandre’s scarlet eyes widened. “Come, Chieftain. Let me show you the flames.”

Her breath smelled of moss and mint. Jon’s hands found her waist and pulled her to him. His member began to test the laces of his breeches.

“No,” he breathed.

He pressed his mouth to her lips and invited her tongue to touch his. She tasted of lemon, mint and ash. He knew his mouth couldn’t taste quite so good, but Melisandre seemed neither to notice nor to mind. When he placed his hand on her neck beneath her hair, the warmth there made the tips of his fingers tingle. He had been cold, but now he was warming up. His other hand searched beneath her robe and found her breast, and the moment the flesh gave in to his grasp there would be no stopping. The priestess pulled off her robe and cast it aside. Jon moved his mouth to her neck above her ruby necklace and to the collarbone below it, tasting the sweetness of her sweat. His mouth traveled lower to her belly, while she pulled his shirt over his head. He planted his lips against her navel and breathed in the deep smell of the places she had been, places he was soon to go – foreign, exciting smells. He went lower, and she placed a foot upon his shoulder that he might more easily kiss the wet petals of her sex. Melisandre ran her fingers through his hair, and something about that felt so wonderful that he had to stop and look up at her face. She stared back in silence, her eyes glowing red and inviting.

Jon stood and stripped himself bare before taking her into his arms and lifting her off her feet and onto a table in the corner near the door, knocking over a couple of candles that she had lit. They went out as they fell, but had they ignited the wood and set the ship afire, Jon would likely have burned and drowned inside her. Guilt lay at the very edge of consciousness, stifled by the satin of her knees against his ribs, and the heat of her insides and the thick softness of her long hair that smelled of mink oil and roses. Val was dead, and yet it still felt like betrayal in the very back of his mind where the pleasure couldn’t quite reach. Melisandre wrapped her arms tightly around his shoulders, grasping for leverage, and it felt so fine to be held that way that for a moment Jon felt he might cry. Suddenly, it was as if they both left their bodies, and while he pounded away at her in the dark of her cabin, somewhere above, she spoke to him saying, _watch your mind. Without training, it might run away and leave your heart for the immense human fee set by the thieves of time…_

He embraced her and squeezed her closer to him, plunging into her deeper but knowing he must stop and stop soon. He had sworn never to father a bastard, and the bastard born of this union would be of black smoke and shadow, and could do more violence and evil than the worst human bastards ever might. Above their naked bodies, another Melisandre spoke to another Jon like a dark septa in red robes: _you were a dream, planting itself precisely within your parents’ desire… **[1]**_

Melisandre’s head fell back and she groaned. Jon felt the muscles of her thighs tense at his hips and quickly withdrew from her so he could release his seed onto her smooth lovely thigh. Instead, Melisandre slipped down to the floor onto her knees and took him into her mouth. He came upon her tongue and she swallowed it all without a moment’s hesitation, then sucked gently at the tip of his member after all was spent, sending a rattling shiver through Jon’s body. He was sure that everyone on board the ship could hear him hollering in ecstasy, but there was nothing he could do. Outside, the sun was rising, and the cold air was changing into a warm, soothing wind.

[1] Joy Harjo, Keynote, AWP Conference 2021.


End file.
